


crawl home

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Odyssey, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Power Dynamics, Reconciliation, Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: “And Hades?”“What about him?”“Is he a good man?” you ask.~Hades returns from Tartaros as a broken king. An Atlantean amidst his affairs only complicates matters and emotions.
Relationships: Hades/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. hadestown

**Author's Note:**

> listen
> 
> this is the only way i can romance hades

The unblinking man in front of you leans wearily on his worn staff, his shaven head tilted in a curious manner. His shining eyes have drowned in black-- and his wiry beard is the color of ash. Beneath his robes, his pallid skin is like spilled ink on parchment, settling in the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet.

“You don’t look dead,” he remarks with a voice like a blade against the whetstone: dry, raspy, and metallic.

It’s true. You stand out among the milling dead, whose skin are caked with dust and mud and have lost most color from their faces. And though the air is cloying and hard to breathe, you reply lightly, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A small smile touches his lips. “You’re from Atlantis.”

“How can you tell?”

He waves a blackened, charred hand. “Easily. The clothes. The way you act with purpose. If you were from the overworld, you would have asked a thousand questions by now.” He tilts his head again. “Then I assume you know who I am, Atlantean.”

The burnt ends of his robes seem to melt into the wind yet never lose mass or form. Inked tattoos paint along his scalp, dissecting the secrets of mind. The alchemical symbol for water rests on his brow as a mark of his domain. The soft chimes of swaying chains accompany him, but you fail to see any draped on his melancholy person. It is not difficult to recognize the ferryman, Charon.

“How did you get past the gate guardians?” he asks curiously. “After all that work in searching for a replacement for Cerberos, and yet one more mortal waltzes through. You must have a silver tongue.”

You withdraw a pouch of obols from your belt. “The  _ Dikastes Basileus _ sent me to ask why the state of the Underworld remains volatile. It worries Poseidon.” You present the coins to Charon. “Please. Grant me passage so I may seek an audience with Hades.”

Charon sighs. “I would, but I fear it would be pointless. ”

The howling dead become a distant din. “Hades has not returned?”

“No. He remains in Tartaros and all we can do is wait for him to recover enough strength to escape.” Charon gently pushes your hand away. His touch is like frostbite. “I’m sorry, but there is no news for your Grand Adjudicator. The throne remains empty for the time being, and the dead continue to pile up at the entrance.”

You briefly wonder the consequences of a kingdom without a king. Charon didn’t seem the type who would take command, especially with already being overworked. Hades had no heirs, no adopted children, no named successor to take his place in these unprecedented times. Persephone by marital right would have assumed the role in her husband’s absence but she kept her distance from the murky underworld.

Charon pads over to his river boat and setting down the pole. He sits on the stairs descending into the caustic Styx, looks up at you, then pats the empty spot next to him. You oblige the ferryman. “Indulge my curiosity,” he says, “but would Poseidon be strong enough to enter Tartaros and seek out Hades?”

You shake your head. “This is not his domain. He is not a god of hellfire.”

Charon agrees. “Quite the opposite, really.” He side-eyes you with an unreadable expression. “What’s so special about you, Atlantean? Why would Poseidon send you to the land of the dead?”

The river laps at your feet hungrily. “I’m not afraid of the dead.”

It is a bold claim. But after eternities of rowing the countless dead, he reads the truth with a simple glance. Here you are, conversing with the ferryman, indifferent to lounging by the edge of the Styx. It brings a sense of  _ normalcy _ in an otherworldly manner for a man whose normal is  _ not _ . “I appreciate Poseidon’s choice. He is known to be a reasonable ruler,” says Charon.

“And Hades?”

“What about him?”

“Is he a good man?” you ask.

“That is a difficult question,” Charon admits. “Whether he is shaped by his tasks as the king of the dead, or if he is a good king because of his character.” He spreads his hands, palms to the murky sky, and you notice a remarkable lack of calluses. “Hades is driven by self-interest and what he believes is right. The overlap of those two is not always good or bad.”

“And  _ right _ isn’t inherently good, either,” you comment.

He smiles. “I like you, Atlantean. I’ll be sorry that you can’t stay.”

You laugh. “One day, Charon. However long it may be.”

“Right, right. You Atlanteans typically live longer than the overworld mortals.” He sighs and stands up, offering to help you. To him, your skin is like the flames of the Thanatos pyre. Restorative. Dynamic. Alive. “Perhaps the next time you visit, Hades will be back. And you will be able to judge him yourself.”

It is easy to read about the Underworld in texts and scrolls. Words fail to capture the overbearing sense of ruin as you trek back towards the portal. Not many mortals exit the realm successfully; it’s by the grace of Poseidon who create the rift between Atlantis and the Underworld, a shimmering gateway nestled near one of the gates of hell.

Poseidon expressed sincere concern for his older brother. Perhaps he shouldered some of the blame, he told you personally, as he watched Hades get dragged into vengeful Tartaros. Perhaps the absence of another god worried him. With Hermes’s rumored demise, the Isu scrambled to protect themselves and each other.

The inhabitants of the Underworld leer jealously at your presence. A few lurch towards you menacingly only to suddenly recoil. What happens when the dead kill? You slip past the ghostly fingers tugging at your hemmed sleeves. You can’t spare pity for the dead. Not when it inevitably happens to everyone.

Amidst the arid and choking air suddenly is a faint floral scent.

Hyacinths. Primroses. Violets. 

It calls to you. If there were ever a sign from the gods, this most certainly was one. You push through the crowds and head away from the portal. It’s not too far away, though the terrain is unforgiving and scrapes your skin as you navigate the mountain path. As with most odysseys, the challenge rewards and the ground gives way to long grass and hidden wildflowers.

There had been whispers of souls crossing to and from Elysium and the Underworld, but you hadn’t anticipated the blessings of paradise to be within arm’s reach.

Nor did you expect to see Persephone to be standing in the middle of the flowers, glowering at the shapeless creature at her feet. The goddess exudes a vicious aura that forces you to duck behind cover and watch, mouth agape, as she extends a glowing hand over the creature, which then ripples and shifts into something humanoid, something that resembles--

A king on his knees, without his armor or weapons, without an ace up his sleeve. Bruises and open wounds litter his marble skin as if a distressed artist had viciously slashed his masterwork. Golden steam rises from his arched back as black miasma drips and seeps into the ground and stains Persephone’s flowers.

Of course. As powerful as Poseidon was, he had no power in a place born of brimstone and fire. He couldn’t pull Hades from the depths of hell-- but the Queen of the Underworld could.

Hades slowly raises his head and meets his wife’s violet, violent gaze. There is a stench of humiliation and defeat in the mask of salvation.

In a ruined voice, he croaks, “Why?”

“Because I could,” Persephone snaps. Her white gown whispers against the ground as she circles around him, never taking her eyes off. Her Isu markings match the radiance of her blonde trellises woven with carnations. “Because I wanted to. And…”

Persephone hesitates. From this angle, it is impossible to read her face. But her hands hover above Hades’s bloodied back, wavering, then withdraw completely. 

“You would have done the same for me.” Without turning around, Persephone then says sharply in a completely different tone, authoritative and steely, “You. Hiding. Come here.”

_ Shit. _

You stand and bow quickly to the queen. Before you can explain, Persephone orders, “Take him back to the palace and the  _ Asclepiads _ .” After a second’s thought, she flicks her hands and conjures a black cloak from thin air. “Don’t let anyone see him.”

Shaking from the sudden turn of events, you kneel next to the king and drape the cloak over his shoulders. Hades does not remove his gaze from Persephone, who tightens her lips and then disappears without a word. He bows his head and you wait for him to regain his breath and fortitude, and enough strength to rise to his feet. You gingerly grab his elbows, trying to not to flinch as his cold skin burns you. 

The texts only ever depict Hades with a signature helm, menacing armor, and a battle axe. And though he lacks all, something about his physique continues to radiate power. It could be the towering trait of the Isu or the sharp, odd angles in his face. His hair is fine and wispy like spider silk.

When he finally turns a baleful gaze to you, you are momentarily stunned by his crimson eyes, and how they bleed color like ink on thin paper.

He searches your face for meaning. “You’re Atlantean,” Hades says softly, elegant and concise, with the barest hint of a growl. “I can smell the salt in your blood.”

He allows you to wrap your arms around him and the two of you limp down the treacherous trail. The king slips once and nearly drags you down with him, but finds his balance at the last moment. The Isu markings on his arms and chest bear a weak glow, much less than any other you witnessed up close. Past his mussed hair, you can see delicate golden lines on his jaw and temples.

As you come across the meandering dead, Hades tugs the cloak down around his face. Persephone knew the risks of revealing a weakened, vulnerable king. Though he was a god, Hades could be easily overpowered or further weakened by the masses. Persephone knowingly appointed you as his guardian, as if you were strong enough to protect him. Surely there was nothing more conspicuous in the Underworld.

But no one recognizes the fleeting image of the god of the dead.

Charon has a boat half full of patient passengers; evidently he’d gone back to work after the short talk. He perks up as he sees you approach. “Back already? And you have a friend.”

“I was sidetracked,” you admit.

Charon peers a little closer at the cloaked man, and then he inhales sharply. “Indeed you were,” he says, sounding dumbstruck. He catches the coin pouch when you toss it in his direction, then steps aside with a slight bow. You carefully help Hades climb on, then sit next to him. The slim river boat is decorated with scraps of cloth and various animal bones.

Charon takes his staff and pushes off against dock. The punt smoothly slices through the water. The rats and cats’ skulls decorating the sides quietly chatter. The other passengers strike up their own timid conversation, and it gives you the excuse to speak with Hades.

“Poseidon sent me to speak with you,” you say quietly to the gray-haired man. “He was worried that you hadn’t returned from Tartaros.”

Hades scowls. “Preoccupied with a rotting conscience, yet lacked the virtue to intervene.”

“Your brother has no power here,” you remind kindly. “Only Persephone could bring you back.”

The opposite shore is flecked with countless more dead. In the distance is a sickly yellow field of wheat; further along the bank are statues surrounded by makeshift tents and ruined homes. Hades’s palace hides behind a sloping mountain of red stone. Familiar beams of light herald the sky, though the same deep crimson as his eyes.

Hades pulls the cloak tighter around himself. “Why would Poseidon send a mortal to absolve his sins?”

“I asked the same question,” Charon hums.

“You must be rather important to Poseidon.” Hades chuckles. “Or not at all.”

The river boat slows and lightly rocks in the current as it nears the shore. Charon hops out and assists the souls ravaged by old age and fear. He holds the reins to a pale stallion as the two of you saddle and then hands them over to you. “Ride to the inner gates. I will send word to your Grand Adjudicator.”

You nod and dig your heels to coax a slow walk, then a canter. Hades hesitantly places his hands on your hips. By now you’ve become accustomed to the chilly touch. 

The outer gates rapidly approach and you tense up at the sight of armed Isu guards, who take note of the strange riders. Hades leans forward and whispers in your ear. “Don’t stop.” You tighten your grip on the reins and keep the pace. 

The guards shout and raise their weapons, then suddenly fall back in shock and awe. The two of you race past half a dozen Isu when you glance over your shoulder. Hades lets the cloak fall away from his face. It strikes you that no one else in the Underworld truly looks like him. Sitting tall with a hardened gaze, it is impossible to mistake him as anything other than a god.

Hades presses closer to you. “Eyes forward.” You hastily obey, but not before seeing a smirk touch his lips.

The entrance to the palace and its gates is flecked with more Isu guards than you’d seen in your life. Seeing your passenger has the same effect as before, and they bow deeply as you slow and hop off the horse. Hades ignores your offered hand and descends by himself. 

He strides inside and you hurry close on his heels. Your breath comes in small wispy clouds in the freezing air. Once the guards are out of sight, Hades tosses his cloak to you. Once more you stare at the purple and black bruises that cover most of his marble skin.

Hades leans heavily against the hallway. “Tartaros is a hellish place,” he tells you, examining the deep gashes scored on his arms. Ichor oozes slowly. “Filled with souls brimming with hate. Those who regret their deserved destiny and lash out with anger, and those who know their place as the worst of humankind.”

“How--”

“It’s a tedious story,” Hades snaps, waving a disinterested hand.

The torches flicker calmly against the obsidian walls, though no heat emanates from them. And despite being a palace, there are no guards on either side of the hall, permitting quiet privacy for the two of you. You grasp Persephone’s cloak tightly to your chest. It is the softest, warmest material you have ever felt. Hades’s eyes dart back and forth from his wounds to your still figure. 

“Why are you still here?” he asks finally.

“Persephone asked that I take you to the  _ Asclepiads _ , sire,” you say, “though I do not know where the doctors reside within the palace.”

“I will be attended in my quarters. I hardly need assistance for that,” Hades says, and continues down the hall. Each stride he takes matches two of yours. “Atlanteans are devout to a fault, I suppose.”

“It is never a good idea to err on the side of a god,” you tell him, “especially when it’s orders from Persephone. And then Poseidon, the  _ Dikastes Basileus, _ has asked me to receive formal hearing from your court regarding the aftermath of your--”

“Misfortune?” Hades finishes dryly.

You acknowledge the word choice with a tilt of your head. The red-eyed man abruptly stops, and then looms over you. As the shadows under his eyes smudge and darken, the brighter the Isu markings glow, gilted and golden. He gestures in the air and says with a saccharine tone, “Does this not suffice as an audience?”

You cant your gaze to the side. It feels impossible to withstand his intense scrutiny. “There are no witnesses, sire.”

His lips twitch. “Very true. However, I would have to recover completely before appearing in court. It may take quite some time. Do you intend on staying until your task is finished? The Underworld is not... compliant with mortals.” Hades murmurs.

“What do you suggest?”

Hades exhales. “Go home. Return later if you truly must follow your tasks to the letter.”

“Yes, sire.” You gesture to the rest of the hallway, and continue, “But first, to the  _ Asclepiads _ .”

Hades narrows his eyes. “Something tells me that you’ll be incessantly demure,” he says, scowling half-heartedly. He clasps his bloodied hands behind his back and starts the sweeping pace again. “At least  _ try  _ and be more entertaining than Tartaros, won’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

Time moves slower in the Underworld.

You sit in an overtly ornate chair in Hades’s spacious quarters as a handful of Isu physicians tend to their king. The  _ Asclepiads  _ are clearly skilled, but by their demeanor and exchanged glances, it’s clear they had never treated Hades before.

Hades sits bored on the edge of his four-poster bed. He ignores the physicians bandaging the worst of his wounds and instead flips through a gold-trimmed tome. You feel as if he watches you occasionally, but whenever you look, he seems wholly invested in reading.

The  _ Asclepiads _ finally pack their salves and hurry out of the room, too frightened to offer instructions or condolences to him. The heavy door closes behind them and the room becomes significantly colder. Hades exhales audibly, then leans back on his forearms. He keeps his book propped open with a slender hand and you glimpse what looks like a ledger with names. He notes your distracted gaze.

“As king of the Underworld, I’m to decide where mortals go after their demise,” he says calmly. “Whether Elysium or the Mourning Fields, and so on.” He studies the ledger for a long moment. “The attendants, in my absence, have done a passable job. Of course, there are a few oversights that can be easily fixed.”

“How long has it been since Tartaros?” you ask.

“Difficult to say,” Hades replies seriously. “Do not measure the passage of time, but the number of souls gathered on the far bank. You might have noticed by now that hunger and thirst is irrelevant. Fatigue is present, but there is no lust for sleep.”

You lean forward slightly. “But all the stories say that if you eat or drink anything in the Underworld--”

“You are obliged to stay. This is true.” Hades sighs. “If you consume anything, it is by greed and not necessity.”

The legend of Persephone rings in the back of your mind. Six pomegranate seeds. Was that enough to satisfy avarice? Or curiosity? You bite your tongue and pretend to return to work. Not a second later, a shadow falls over you.

“And what is this?” Hades asks, bending almost in half to scrutinize the scrolls on your lap. His ashen shoulder-long hair tickles your senses. “Reports for your Grand Adjudicator?”

You don’t look up. “Yes, sire. I work mostly as a senior scribe under Poseidon.”

“You must be quite the curator to travel to the Underworld and face me. ‘Under’ my brother, hmm?” He chuckles lowly and you feel blood rush to your cheeks at the insinuation. His voice drops an octave. “Don’t be chaste, now. Most mortals would boast about bedding gods--”

“You misunderstand,” you interrupt him, looking up sharply. Hades arches an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn’t anticipated the fire in your gaze. “I communicate directly with the  _ Dikastes Basileus _ and advise him on realm matters. I travel under his protection and guidance.”

Hades smirks. “And that’s all?” He straightens up and tilts his head back, face up as if he were praying or thinking. His pensivity is marred by the dark purplish bruises on the left side of his face. As if he were a marble sculpture ruined on impulse. “You care too much for our pride. You have permission to speak your mind.”

Your fingers curl against the worn parchment. Your silence speaks loudly.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

Hades does not step back as you stand up; the two of you invade privacy without concern. His Isu markings are scarily alluring. “I am not in the mood to serve divine punishment, Atlantean.”

“I won’t chance it.”

The unspoken tension which urges Hades to coax your anger is rooted in his power. He doesn’t seem to grasp your attention to authority-- attention, not necessarily respect. Hades could make as many honeyed promises as he liked. It means nothing if you are on unequal footing. You are not in a position to be brutally honest.

Frankly, you’re also not brave enough. Facing the dead and Hades are vastly different challenges.

Hades narrows his red eyes. “Are you… leaving, Atlantean?”

“If you would allow me,” you reply in a half-whisper. He does not need to strain to hear the tension in your voice. “Is there anything else you require of me, sire?”

His answer comes swift. “No. When I have fully healed, you may have your formal audience.” Hades steps back and returns to his ledger of souls’ names. You shove the rest of your scrolls into your knapsack, and then neatly place Persephone’s cloak on the chair.

Flipping through the pages of his book, Hades extends a hand and waves at the doorway. A crackle of crimson energy takes form in another realm portal, similar to the one Poseidon had summoned for you, and you can practically taste the ocean salt just a few feet away.

You approach the shimmering portal, but each step feels heavier than the last. Hades’s parting words halt your exit.

“You forget your cloak, Atlantean.”

“It belongs to you, sire. It was from your wife.”

“Hmm. Turn around.” Hades reaches for your lapel and fixes a shimmering brooch in the shape of a tree branch with golden leaves. Immediately you recognize the mythical bough of gold used for safe passage between the mortal realm and the Underworld. His hands rest heavily on your collarbone as they adjust the ornamental pin.

Courage seizes you. “Sire--?”

“Speak.”

“If you’re not obliged to eat in the Underworld, then why did Persephone--”

Hades sighs again. “She was not always unhappy,” he says quietly. “I offered a throne. A position of power and equality in this kingdom. My wife accepted, but… her longing for the above manifests as resentment.”

And with a mournful, wretched look in his burning eyes, Hades pushes you through the portal.


End file.
